


Allelopathy

by asuralucier



Series: Bonum Fidei [3]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Coffee, Crossdressing, Emotional Constipation, Getting Together, M/M, Marcus needs a hug, Need and Wants, Some violent imagery, This whole thing started because I wanted Marcus to wear a dress, Vodka, Winston reluctantly ships this probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: John’s first job goes to hell in San Francisco, and the worst part of it all is that he is rescued by a man in drag.Set in theBonum Fidei‘verse (also known as the Marcus lives!AU) where John keeps on breaking a certain heart until he doesn’t.





	Allelopathy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilylynnbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilylynnbelle/gifts).



> In keeping with my tendency to pretend I know science, the title is a biological phenomenon that refers to organisms producing certain biochemicals known as ‘allelochemicals’ to influence the growth of other things around it. This could either have a beneficial or detrimental effect on said surrounding organisms. The origin of allelopathy as a word is also interesting: “allelo-” from the Greek for “one another” and “-pathy” meaning “feeling.” 
> 
> The bulk of this takes place before the other stories in the series but I’d read this between Biopsy and Anopsy. The order of the series has been fixed to reflect this. 
> 
> In other news, this fandom needs more Dafoe in drag. Doing my bit!

John’s first job goes to hell in San Francisco, and the worst part of it all is that he is rescued by a man in drag. A guy all decked out in a fluffed sandy-blond wig, mascara, and red red lipstick that the guy probably didn’t even apply himself. 

Not that John knows anything knows anything about women’s makeup. 

Above, the smithereens of a chopper careen through glass and sirens. The sirens are loud. 

“That was _my mark_ ,” John seethes. He’s dizzy and in a lot of pain, and his ears are still ringing, but none of that matters because he’s fucking pissed off. “You stole my --” 

It happens lightning quick, or not really. His opponent has the upper hand, being completely mobile and John finds himself winded, on his back with the sharp end of a stiletto heel not even an inch from his Adam’s apple. 

Then the man says, “God, my feet are killing me.” 

John blinks but he is careful not to move. “I know you.” 

“Yeah, you do,” the guy says and then there’s a sharp pain at the side of John’s head and he feels his eyelids suddenly grow heavy. 

 

“...Told you, he’s fine, Viggo,” says the man’s voice from before. John forces his eyes open to find the man pacing the length of the hotel room with a cigarette in hand. “He’s even up, you want to speak to him, you can.” 

John finds a phone shoved into his hand. The man says, “Talk.” 

John finds that he rather hurts everywhere and when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. He tries clearing his throat and it’s like his balls have sort of shriveled up and died, “Hi, Viggo.” 

Fuck, John’s voice cracks when he doesn’t mean it to, and he sounds about seventeen. In reality he’s not that far away from it, because days are basically a blink of an eye and then John is back where it’s all started. 

“Do you know how much you’ve just _cost_ me, John?” 

John winces, “I can pay it back. And the mark is --” 

“Dead,” Viggo says, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “Don’t even get me started about sunk-cost.” 

“The what?” John sinks back into the pillows. 

“Go back to sleep.” the phone gets plucked out of his hand again and John watches as the man (in regular clothes, loose shirt, belt, pleated trousers, socks) folds himself into an armchair. On his wrist is an expensive looking watch. 

“Viggo? Marcus again. Look -- Stanislaus is still dead. You’ve not…” His -- Marcus’s mouth -- goes into a straight thin line, displeased and grim, “Okay. Come on, work with me here. I’ll take it. I’ll square it with the Manager at the Continental and I will pay you what you’re owed so you can shut up about _sunk-costs_.” 

John says, before he can think about whether or not it’s a bad idea, “The fuck are you doing?” 

Marcus looks at him, calm and even and sighs, “Call you back,” and then he hangs up on Viggo Tarasov like he is not afraid of anything. 

“I didn’t need you to do that,” John bites out. “My word is my bond. I would have paid him back.” 

“With what?” Marcus says, and John feels the words twist unhappily in his gut because reality has ugly roots. “I know who you are, John Wick. You’re good at wrenching things out of the Polish and the Albanians. But not much else.” 

“You always drink with the Manager,” John presses a hand to his throbbing temple. “What are you doing here anyway, wearing...what you were wearing?” 

At that, Marcus makes to flex his toes in his socked feet and rubs a hand against his mouth as if looking for leftover lipstick. And then his face goes, like he’s suddenly remembering something very painful, “I had a job.” 

“Dressed like that.” 

“It was a hit inside a cabaret,” Marcus says, running a hand idly through his hair, “I get a bonus if I blended in.” 

 

“Your bonus is how much?” John blinks. 

“You didn’t mishear me,” Marcus smirks, “just the bonus would cover what you owe Viggo. But I’m not ever putting on a dress for you again.” 

 

Turns out, Marcus ends up doing a lot things for John, enough that Winston, the Manager of the Continental thinks to mention it when he sidles up next to John on the bar. He waves away John’s coin and motions for the bartender to tip even more vodka into John’s glass. 

“I can pay,” John protests. He wonders if Winston too, is going to lecture him about sunk-costs, as if John hasn't already had enough of mafia economics. When it rains it pours. 

“I know you can,” Winston says. “But a coin isn’t the only way to pay what you owe.” 

John might not know about sunk-costs, but he knows well enough what a man wants when he uses a voice like that, “I…” 

“Drink.” 

John does, like he’s on automatic. 

“Marcus has taken an interest in your development, Jonathan,” Winston says. 

“What, like I’m some kind of plant.” John’s name isn’t Jonathan; but that’s something else Marcus has told John too, that Winston likes doing with his favorites. Jonathan isn’t so bad, as far as nicknames go, but Marcus hates his, after some Roman emperor. 

Winston laughs, “That’s what I said too.” 

“What does he want me to _develop_ , anyway?” 

“A little patience wouldn’t go amiss,” Winston says. “But do have some patience for him too.”

John pans Winston up and down, “I don’t know what that means.” 

“Chew on it,” Winston claps him on the shoulder and motions to the bartender again, “get Mr. Wick another drink.” 

 

Naturally, John decides that this must mean that Marcus wants to fuck him. He’s not exactly opposed, but he’s not exactly inclined, either. 

If John is honest, he could have easily be swayed one way or the other, but after a couple of sessions in the underground gun-range, if he hears Marcus say anything about alignments, or _value_ , he might venture to shoot himself in the head. 

They’ve become good friends with the guy clerk who is usually doing crosswords when they turn up for training. The guy’s name is Garamond like the typeface. That’s how he introduces himself, “Hey, ‘sup, I’m Garamond-like-the-typefuckface.” Garamond must be a riot on dates. 

Garamond sometimes leaves them to fetch coffee; he's got a thing. A condition he manages by inhaling caffeine at all hours. Marcus always declines because apparently he’s got better coffee at home. John asks for a triple shot latte with extra cream, and Marcus goes cross-eyed. He doesn’t even particularly like his coffee order, but it’s almost worth it, watching the man go cross-eyed at John’s caffeinated transgressions. 

“What?” 

“That amount of sugar makes me dizzy,” Marcus responds and it’s so empty and not anything. His attention is mostly on the barrel of his sniper rifle, John watches him work and he feels a strange little itch curling near his groin that is familiar and then not. 

“How do you usually have your coffee?” 

“Black.” Marcus doesn’t look at him. “But you know that.” 

Black. Marcus had been wearing a black number when John first met him for real in San Francisco. 

“Hey.” 

Marcus keeps working, but there’s a jerkiness to his motions now, not so practiced or smooth. As if he is gearing up his flight or fight response accordingly. That’s the thing about snipers, John thinks, they smell danger more keenly than anyone else. 

Finally, Marcus sighs, “Yeah, John?” 

“Do you still have that dress?” 

“What dress,” Marcus says. 

“How often do you _do_ that sort of thing that you have to ask a question like _what dress_.” John looks at him, wondering if Marcus has hit his head somewhere.

“Women sometimes leave things at my place,” Marcus says, in a voice that is probably pointed and sharpened exquisitely to make John’s testicles do unnatural things inside his ball-sack. “So yes, I am in possession of dresses. Incidentally. Sometimes.” 

The man is a wall. Or a safety cocked (ha!) so tight that a bullet can never squeeze past where it lives, so dank and dark, into the world. 

“Why did you do that for me, in San Francisco?” Goading the man clearly isn’t working, and John is better now. More seasoned, learning how to read a room. So he switches tack. Although he would have dearly liked to see Marcus’s face when John hits him with, _“You know I’ve jerked it to you. In a dress.”_

But maybe it’s better for John too, that he keeps that as his own secret. 

“You’re Viggo’s darling,” Marcus smiles, and even when he’s reprimanding John for something or the other, there is always a little warmth. Not this time, stone cold through and through. “Couldn’t very well let you die.” 

“I am not Viggo’s anything,” John reminds him. “And I meant the debt.”

“It wasn’t a debt for me,” Marcus says. “It cost me nothing.” 

John swallows, “Nothing or not -- thank you. I never said.” 

Marcus opens his mouth, and for a moment, John thinks that the moment is here, pregnant and about to break water. 

But then a telling slam of the door goes and Garamond is back, slamming down John’s hilarious monstrosity of a coffee order. “Here you go, buddy.” 

Marcus stands, “Going out for a smoke.” He strides out, and John takes a huge gulp of his overly sugared coffee and suddenly despises everything about his life. 

 

Viggo sends them on a job together in Moscow. It is so fucking cold. 

But the cutting cold keeps John up and up and up. This time he shivs the mark, a certain Irina Solokova straight under her collarbone and then opens her chest. Viggo wants a message and that’s a message. 

Part of John is as awake as he has ever been, the other part of him thinks about Marcus watching through his scope judging his alignment. 

Later, they get good and drunk on Viggo’s dime and when the bottle of Stoli is near empty, Marcus puts his head on John’s shoulder and says, “Show off.” 

John yanks him up by the hair for a kiss and the vodka is sweet and tempered with the slightly sickly taste of nicotine. Marcus doesn’t smoke much, but when he does, John can tell most of the time. That’s how good he’s gotten at details He is the summary execution of all of Marcus’s careful tutelage. 

“Wait, wait.” Marcus extricates himself but John’s got reach over experience and he knows he can’t let Marcus out of this room, out of his grasp. Marcus’s mouth is shiny and red with spit, almost like he’s put on lipstick again. 

“ _Why_ ,” John says, willing the word to be more. To be a balm for whatever wound that Marcus has open. 

Marcus draws himself up, as if lining up a shot. John tenses, because he knows that this is going to hurt. 

“Because it’s stupid, John.”

But John doesn’t exactly hear that, that it’s stupid. He hears _I love you_ , instead. And that’s possibly more stupid. 

 

Some time later, John meets a woman wearing a sleek black dress and red lipstick. She smiles, no secrets, and tells him that her name is Helen.


End file.
